


Persuading John Watson

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock BBC
Genre: Basically PWP, Chat-up lines, M/M, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-20
Updated: 2011-05-20
Packaged: 2017-10-19 16:16:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/202796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes, at this moment in time, would very much like sex. John isn't all that willing to oblige him. So what does the Consulting Detective turn to in his hour of need? Why, chat-up lines, of course.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Persuading John Watson

John, being a doctor and all, recommends at least eight hours of sleep a night to keep the human body fully rested.

Someone obviously didn’t tell this to Sherlock Holmes.

John, being a doctor and all, recommends not waking him up at six in the morning when he’d been up until two the night before, scrubbing at the phallic graffiti kindly left on his bedroom door.

Someone obviously didn’t tell this to Sherlock Holmes.

Bed invasions are a relatively common occurrence within the walls of 221B; be they by persons or animals alive or dead just generally depends on the mood of the Consulting Detective and the quality of the Baker Street road-kill. So, saddeningly enough, when John feels fingers prise open his cosy cocoon of covers and a warm body slide in, he can’t help but feel grateful that this body has a heartbeat. Whilst simultaneously wanting to cease it by murdering the man.

Ever since the pair had fallen together one night, passions run high by post-traumatic shock and adrenaline illuminating previously unknown avenues of sexual deviance, Sherlock Holmes had taken their recent carnal exploits as a go-ahead of sorts. John wasn’t able to pinpoint just what part of his behaviour had given this impression – as far as he was aware, buggery wasn’t the internationally recognised symbol for “by all means, feel free to act insufferably at any given moment”, but what did he know? He supposes that’s probably what Sherlock does with affection – exploits it – but he can’t complain too much: not every Average Joe can boast of sleeping with a Consulting Detective.

He’s unbearably smug about being the only one who can.

Well, not at this present moment. The urge for violent murder is appearing to predominate.

“John,” Sherlock murmurs, inflection rising like he’s addressing a child. The doctor doesn’t feel above throwing a tantrum but he can’t be arsed to _move_. “I’m in your bed.”

 _Excellent deduction_ materialises in John’s head, but “Ugh.” comes out of his mouth; it conveys much the same sentiment in perhaps a less eloquent manner than he would have preferred.

Sherlock seems unperturbed by this; he presses again: “John. John. John. John. Jo-”

“You spray-painted a cock on my door, Sherlock. _Fuck off_.”

Suddenly John feels hands slipping under his t-shirt, toes sliding along the length of his tibia.

“John,” Sherlock murmurs, “I’m not wearing any clothes.”

“I can- I can _feel_ that, Sherlock- Jesus Christ, it’s probably four o’clock in the bloody morning. It’s still dark!”

“Six o’clock.” Sherlock corrects him gently. His hands, not aided by the rigor mortis-like stiffness in the positioning of John’s limbs, are doing their best to move John’s top up and off his torso but are instead succeeding in just massaging his pectorals instead.

John’s boat remains thoroughly unshaken by the incident.

“I’ve not been to bed yet,” Sherlock drawls, his voice taking on a timbre that would be alluring to a normal person not excessively sleep-deprived; he drops his mouth to John’s stomach in the hope the vibrations will do half the work for him, “but now I’m in yours.”

“You know,” John begins with an exasperated gaze cast down towards the flatmate trailing kisses up from his navel, “I sort of gathered that.” He coughs; the movement jostles Sherlock into nosebutting his ribcage and that is _fine by him_. “I am really not in the mood, Sherlock.”

There is a noise of calculated dissent and a flash of warm wetness; Sherlock’s tongue flickers against scarred skin.

“I am willing,” Another pause, perhaps for drama or just to annoy John further, “to engage in intercourse with you at this very moment.”

It will always be a marvel to John Watson how the detective phrases his speech in just the way to make you feel like he’s doing _you_ a favour, like you’re the one pestering him instead of it being completely the other way round. He should expect it, really – the reverse psychology. The “well I suppose you won’t be wanting to get the milk, then”, with just the right inflection to get his back up and think: well actually, perhaps he bloody well _will_ get the milk if he’s got such a low opinion of- _Oh_.

The doctor snorts, “‘Intercourse’? Who the hell calls it ‘intercourse’ nowadays?”

“I do. So let’s have it.”

Eyes close in frustration and disbelief that John actually cohabits with this man and tolerates him on a daily basis.

“ _No_. Like I said, I’m _not in the mood_ , Sherlock. Somehow being on my knees in the hallway for half of the night has zapped all enthusiasm for that out of me.”

“That’s not what you usually say.”

“Fuck off.” Is the plain response.

Here is an anomaly: a moment which, if by some marvel of psychic connectivity anyone were able to see into the vast brain of Sherlock Holmes and subsequently remind the great detective of the paths his thoughts are threatening to take, Sherlock will heartily deny ever existed. He’s lucky in that sense; John isn’t telepathic (as far as either of them know) and is engaged in ignoring his lover, therefore he doesn’t notice it either.

Sherlock wonders if actually John might be right in this instance.

Then he remembers he’s Sherlock Holmes and that this just can’t be possible. There just has to be something he can dredge up, invent, manipulate in order to convince John that sex right now is the best idea he’s ever heard in his entire lifetime and that he can’t remember a single reason why he ever dissented in the first place, oh and while he’s at it he’ll be sure to wake up early to bring him breakfast in bed tomorrow. It’s at least worth a _try_. If anyone were to achieve such an endeavour, it would be-

Suddenly a memory jolts back to him, selected carefully from his hard drive for the occasion:

 _John Watson, 3 months ago._

 _“I swear to God, Sherlock, sometimes I reckon you could make me come just by talking.”_

This is most interesting.

Just by talking. He can do that. He does that often: talking. It is definitely one on the long list of his talents; he’s a master of lexemes and semantics and unfalteringly persuasive pragmatics. This task should be a metaphorical walk in the park for someone so staggeringly intelligent and brilliant as him. He has to think about this scientifically: when was the last time he influenced someone in such a manner? Not for sex, of course, but-

Molly. Always Molly, always happy to aid him in every endeavour. “Is that a new dress?” He’d said to her only a couple of days ago, accosted her by the lockers and watched her fingers tremble gently as she slipped her skinny arms into the sleeves of her coat. It was true: she’d recently taken to wearing progressively more elaborate and expensive-looking dresses to work just in case of chancing across her Holmes. She didn’t want to be caught unawares in a two year-old greying blouse and that was understandable. Her motivations, however, were comprehensible but frankly _insane_ to the detective; bankrupting herself on Karen Millen was – Sherlock felt confident in this fact – not going to change his sexual orientation, unfortunately for her. Once again bored of being able to sum up her debilitating insecurities by one glance at her attire, Sherlock had decided to slightly tweak the combination of button-pushing and come to Molly herself rather than summoning her to him like a despotic dictator. “It might be.” Molly had mumbled into her shoulder at the attention. “It’s nice,” Sherlock had then sealed the deal with the most heinous of adjectives, but she wouldn’t know that; females will latch onto the tiniest of details to reinforce their delusions, “the shade compliments the colour of your eyes.”

He had to smirk at the blatant lie. Sometimes he was just awfully mean to the poor woman. Sometimes he dredged up the ability to care.

Anyway, the technique had worked and Molly crumpled like a wet tissue, allowing him access to the corpses he needed and therefore the _organs_ he needed. She was brilliantly feeble like that. So he knows that particular method can produce results; perhaps all he needs is to replicate the system but replace a few words…

 _“Is that a new penis? It’s nice.”_

No, that wouldn’t work; John’s always had the same one. He’s also not sure how informing the doctor that his genitalia “brings out his eyes” would be a compliment, perhaps in a vague way but he’d lose the potency through explanation.

He’s got to try something else. Blackmail is an old faithful but there’s a part of Sherlock that recognises John wouldn’t respond well to the hard sell. Besides, what would he blackmail him with? No sex? That’d just be ridiculous. No more following him about on cases? That would get to him eventually but not enough to produce instantaneous results; John would just be grateful for the sleep.

Then. _Yes_. Oh, it’s _brilliant_.

He’s seen things like it before, on John’s crap TV shows; there are lines that one can say that never fail. He doesn’t know what it is that makes them so successful – perhaps inflection, choice of words, semantic fields, metaphor? – but they can’t be that difficult to replicate. He’s Sherlock motherfucking Holmes and he is going to make John Watson sleep with him.

“John,” Sherlock suddenly purrs into his lover’s chest, “I think I might be the Golem, because all I want to do is squeeze you.”

It takes five seconds for the doctor to process the situation, five seconds for John to suck in the appropriate amount of air needed to burst into raucous laughter.

“ _Excuse me?_ ” He splutters through cackles in the face of a Consulting Detective completely unmoved by John’s newfound felicity. Sherlock’s expression remains steady, intense.

“Exactly what I said. The point wasn’t that difficult to extract from my speech.”

He feels a vague confusion and also a sort of distant terror that this must be what it feels like to converse with him on a regular basis, never understanding but reluctant to enquire for elucidation. Sherlock has never been a fan of role reversal and this situation is no different.

“Right. Okay.” John mutters, sniggers erupting involuntarily, and moves to roll over. In the hilarity he’s forgotten that he’s not alone in the bed. Sherlock straightens up so he’s straddling his lover over his hips then places a hand on either side of John’s torso to hover over him, gravity sending curls rolling downwards at the motion.

He tries again. “Wats-on you, John? Me.”

John looks up at him with a barely composed, grave sort of seriousness that both of them know will be shattered by giggles any minute.

“I’m still not having sex with you.”

 _‘Challenge accepted’_ , Sherlock’s returning gaze seems to say. He’s not entirely sure why his technique is taking longer than expected to demonstrate positive results and this is infuriating for him both mentally and sexually. He lowers himself onto John with a seductive slowness neither of them really appreciates, attaching his mouth to the doctor’s chest again and getting a mouthful of t-shirt for his trouble.

“Pleasure is my middle name, John.” He murmurs whilst simultaneously trying to force John’s arms above his head in order to get the man’s buggering t-shirt off his unwilling body. John doesn’t seem sure which discipline to dedicate himself to: dissolving into laughter or preventing Sherlock in his endeavours. The former would be certainly more fun but would leave him open to being taken advantage of. Best to hang in there and see how far the detective is willing to go to be carnally satiated.

“‘Sherlock Pleasure Holmes’? That sounds like a place where old people go to die.”

Sherlock’s head jerks up, chin on John’s chest; there’s a flash of annoyance in the brunette’s eyes that is quickly checked and replaced with one of overt sensuality.

“Oooh, John,” He whispers, voice cracking on the ‘oh’ of the man’s name in an almost indecent fashion. Sherlock begins to slide himself down John’s chest, forcing the doctor’s eyes wide; it’s not difficult to deduce what the intention is now and it isn’t likely that John is going to be able to stop this. “I want to rub up on you the way Molly rubs those beakers with a J-cloth.”

“So you think I need to be cleaned?” John counters, desperation creeping into his voice as Sherlock slips further southwards. It’s over John’s crotch that he hovers, allowing his hands to catch up in their descent and settle on the waistband of John’s blue boxers. The owner of this garment swallows loudly.

“It’s because we’re both…” There’s a pause where Sherlock looks up and catches his lover’s eye; John flinches and averts his gaze, “… _so dirty_.” On these words he lowers his head to nuzzle John’s cock, eliciting a suppressed gasp of a curse word out of the doctor’s lips.

 _Success!_ Sherlock thinks as he sees John’s arousal burgeoning in front of his eyes. Not in the mood, are we, Doctor Watson? I think your anatomy would beg to differ.

“Not… having sex with you…” John utters in a broken sort of half whisper that seems the perfect antithesis to his statement. He could be saying “I’m in love with Anderson” and it wouldn’t stop Sherlock on his path to Pleasuredom – and that, ladies and gentlemen, is now Sherlock Holmes’ new word for intercourse. John squirms and communicates his blatantly-un-dissenting dissent as Sherlock’s tongue darts and laps at the material of John’s boxers, tracing the length of the go-ahead the doctor’s body is giving him.

“Of course you’re not.” Sherlock is unable to restrain himself from riposting. He then remembers his goal, his method, how bloody frustrated he’ll be if he screws this one up and doesn’t end up getting a screw out of all his efforts. He coughs once, the puff of air seeming to have an effect on John as the man squirms again. Sherlock coughs again in quick succession. Voice low, he continues:

“You’re like my own can of yellow spray paint;” Sherlock’s fingers curl around the waistband of John’s boxers and slide under the material, “I want to shake you about then make you release a sort of staining substance that is very difficult to get out of clothing.”

Probably not one of his best, that one. Luckily he is able to counteract the awfulness with a tug on cotton and the revealing of something much more… _impressive_ , to use the first adjective that pops into his head. Along with a variety of curse words that all seem to be etymologically derived from the word “fuck”.

He doesn’t voice any of these lexemes. Instead he puts his mouth to better use. John’s moans sound like he’s testing out vowels for the first time, varying in pitch and content with the hollowing of Sherlock’s cheeks and the gentle rhythm the detective has settled himself into. Fingers grasp round hipbones for support, reassurance that he won’t just drift away into the explosive whiteness of his own arousal and lose grip of his doctor. Somehow the sharp penetration of Sherlock’s fingernails into his skin doesn’t irk John like he thought it would; suddenly he finds himself contemplating – amidst _oh, God, Sherlock, ungh, God! Don’t- ever_ – if perhaps he enjoys it. He’ll have to test the theory again, Sherlock will probably be happy enough to oblige him, to determine if it is just bias, or if he-

It is at this moment that John Watson ceases to give a fuck about anything in the universe.

Sensing imminent climax – amongst his many talents, Sherlock Holmes can boast of both mind-reading and psychic sensitivity – Sherlock pulls away and slides upwards, selfishly thinking of his own stiff erection, forcing John to emit a groan that appears an aural representation of all the swear words in the English language put into a blender and turned to power level six. How either of them can think up such elaborate analogies during sex is another matter entirely, but Sherlock will definitely add it to his extensive CV.

Their mouths meet, manipulate, utter insensate strings of consonants; hands pull and grab as hips jerk and pressure builds. They’re both close; John’s extra stimuli matched with Sherlock’s denial puts them just about equal, if they were to turn this into a competition or anything. (Sherlock would win. Sherlock always wins.) John feels fingers wind round his hair and once again finds himself gasping not just at the pain of the tugs but just how _God damn good_ they feel. Definitely… more experiments… in the future… _ungh_.

As they thrust up against one another, craving the friction for the denouement, Sherlock moves his mouth to John’s ear.

“I’m going to fuck you to death, but it’s all right, because I’ll be able to deduce who killed you. I’ll get you justice, John.” Sherlock pants into his ear, arousal making his words protracted and indistinct, “ _Fuck-justice_.”

It takes merely moments for the two men to each reach their individual climax, coming uninhibitedly over one another amidst their own shared laughter.

\--

Some time later, once they are clean and no longer susceptible to outbursts of giggles, John seats himself on the edge of the bed and watches Sherlock bundle the bedclothes into his washing basket.

“You’re going to tell me you made those all ridiculously awful on purpose, aren’t you.” He predicts, his smile colouring his voice in that infectious way all genuine smiles do.

Sherlock raises his eyebrows, halting his bedsheet abuse to address the man: “No.” He then smiles, crooked, slightly smug (but, try as he might, Sherlock can never truly erase the self-satisfaction from his grins. It seems almost as a footnote of his DNA: _please ensure permanent smugness in all expressions of happiness_ ), but Sherlock. “I don’t just call myself a genius for an ego boost. I actually _am a genius_.”

“Modest, too.” John remarks like he’s never heard that one before. The detective leaves in a pause just to gaze at the doctor, this deliciously weak-willed man when it comes to Sherlock Holmes and sex. He’ll keep, that one. (Preferably forever.)

“What geniuses – like myself – do, is that they take what minute flaws they have and manipulate them into positives. I will admit that my talents do not lie in the area of seduction-” John splutters, incredulous, causing Sherlock to amend: “where _words_ are concerned. I calculated that if I distracted you enough with my frankly heinous attempts at chat-up lines, you would not take my advances seriously and therefore let your guard down, leaving yourself exposed for exploitation.”

Another pause.

“I think I preferred my theory.” John deadpans. His blankness shatters when Sherlock takes a running leap and tackles him into the bare mattress; there’s the pain again vaguely, tingling a pleasurable recess of John’s mind, but he leaves that for later.

“You make it far too easy.” Sherlock remarks, hovering over his lover with a shit-eating grin plastered on his annoyingly beautiful face.

“On the contrary,” John’s eyes sparkle, “I’d say that I make it hard.”  


\--


End file.
